


One More Touch, Heavenly Rush

by hairdye_silverfindings



Series: AP English IV Fanfiction [3]
Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Asgard, Asgardians - Freeform, Asgardians drinking wine, F/M, Fandral being Dashing, I also watch a lot of Shakespeare, I write about war a lot, Shakespeare Overload, Sif being A Badass, War and Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:52:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairdye_silverfindings/pseuds/hairdye_silverfindings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fandral comes to Sif's tent one night after battle and decides she's far too serious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Touch, Heavenly Rush

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another one of those 'creative writing' assignments from my English class. Did I mention it's AP and I'm getting credit for writing fanfiction? Hell yes.
> 
> Sif/Fandral is basically one of my favorite pairings and I love them.

Her body was sore and tired and there was an ache in the muscles of her neck. She remembered the ache of her arms after she’d first held a sword, a terrible tearing that had brought tears to her eyes and cries to her throat. But she had persisted and grown stronger and here she was now, washing dirt and blood from her skin.

Sif dropped the rag back into the basin of water, with a slopping noise, gritty water sloshing up the sides. She stretched the muscles in her neck and the soreness brought a smile to her face. Her men had fought well today, and she was proud. She turned, her feet gently padding along on the bare ground, over grass and cool dirt. Her tent was among her soldiers, while Thor’s was off near the top of the encampment, big and red like him. She smiled again to herself as she pulled her hair around to braid it. It was still wet in her hands, and the breeze that blew through the tent chilled her. The walls of the tent were rich gold fabric, the colors of her house, with red along the tops and bottoms, billowing lightly in the breeze. Her cot was fitted with the finest furs and blankets, while her armor stood in the corner, gleaming like starlight.

“You should learn not to sneak,” She said, glancing up to the entrance of her tent, throwing the think braid she’d finished over her shoulder. The wind smelt of autumn leaves and blood. In the entrance stood none other than Fandral; looking clean and careless in a loose rust colored shirt and black trousers. He always looked careless, even when he was splattered with mug and gore. He smiled.

“A nobleman never sneaks, Lady fair,” he said, inclining his head to her. “Might I?” he gestured to the interior of the tent.

“Enter.” Sif nodded, curling on hand into her robe to keep it closed. Fandral stepped into the tent, gazing around curiously, eyes flitting like birds from one thing to the next, until they landed appreciatively on Sif. She smirked and stood taller.

“Know you this,” Fandral said crossing to her and taking her free hand in both of his. “My gaze was a maiden to the beauty of women in armor until I beheld you.” Sif laughed and pulled her hand from his, turned and crossing to a low table that held a jug of wine and fruit.

“You speak with such flattery, Fandral,” She said turning back to him, a grape disappearing into her mouth. Fandral’s hair looked like bronze in the fire from the braziers around the tent, perfuming the air with smoke that smelt of something blissful and rich. “Your words are almost as false as those of the poet god.” Fandral laughed lightly, crossing to Sif and reaching behind her to pour himself wine. As he leaned close she could smell him, damp hair and liquorish.

“Compare me not to him,” He said, speaking low, “I am not nearly as inventive as he.” Sif laughed though her nose and she smiled as Fandral brought the goblet of wine to his lips. He smiled as well, around the rim of the goblet.

“Why come you hence?” She asked, bringing her hand to his hair, running them through the blonde locks, twirling a curl around one of her fingers. Fandral shrugged.

“Fine company,” he said. “Finer sack.” He motioned with his goblet and Sif grinned, her gaze flicked down to his lips before coming back to his eyes.

“Liar.” Sif accused poking Fandral in the chest.

“Ow!” Fandral said, looking down at his chest, bringing a hand to rub the spot she’d prodded. “You must have care with how you wield those hands of yours! You are a deadly force, mine Lady, and – oh – I… I think,” Fandral made a face like he’s been stabbed, his mouth opening and his brow furrowing, his knees going weak. “I think that you have done me in my Lady,” Fandral fell on to her, sloshing his wine on his hand. Sif laughed and caught him as he pushed her backwards.

“Oh! Off villain!” She said, through her laughter. “You do crush the breath from my bosom!”

“Your breath leaves you in sorrow for my passing,” Fandral proclaimed, raising his goblet high in one hand, the other wrapping around her shoulders as he hung on her.

“My breath leaves me in mirth, not sorrow, man!” Sif said pushing on him, his weight seeming only to increase upon her. “Up villain, or I too will join you in the murky unknown.” Fandral only moaned in pain and threw his head back, blonde hair flopping away from his forehead.

“Fret not my Lady,” he lamented, closing his eyes and tugging her to the ground. “The ghost of my memory will continue to the end,”

“To what _end_ , Fandral?” Sif asked holding on to him so she herself wouldn’t fall.

“White shore to call my soul hence, and the light of a thousand forevers in golden halls light the path mine spirit must embark,” Fandral dragged her farther onto the floor, keeping his wine expertly aloft. “I am going, I am gone,” His head lulled and his mouth hung open, breathing heavily. Sif laughed more and twisted him in her lap, to cradle his head.

“What sorrow breaks upon the shores of my soul,” She said, stroking his hair. “He t’was a villain and a scum, but he was pretty in the face. What crime!” She laughed again and Fandral smirked, cracking one eye open.

“Is that all you have to say of me at my grave?” He said, “That I was pretty in the face?” Sif rolled her eyes.

“And what else would you like me to spake?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. “That you were a whoremaster, and a cheat? Or that your love of sack rivaled only that of Valiant Volstagg? That your gut was getting on in years? Tell me! Spake good soul! What shall I utter?” Fandral scowled at her, and she grinned, putting her finger over his lips. “The dead do not speak, fair warrior.”

“And the dead do not drink sack,” He said, lifting the goblet to his mouth. “Nor do they lift war sorrow from a Lady’s shoulders.” Sif smiled and lay on the dirt with him, stretching out beside Fandral, throwing a pale leg over his, her red robe bunching around her.

“No, but sometimes the living do.” She smiled and glanced to him. He grinned and looked careless once more with his hair around his head like bronze pillows and his lips stained red from the wine. Sif sighed and leaned her head back, gazing up into the canvas, wishing she could see the stars.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you lot liked it, sorry if the ending seemed a bit abrupt. Comment are well loved.


End file.
